At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  'I'm sure they must be. I was surprised myself. I think it is very courageous of you,' he added, his expression changing to one of admiration. 'It takes guts to walk into a situation like this and not shy off like a frightened filly. But you're not a frightened filly, are you, Natasha?' He rose, and before she could move was drawing her into his arms. 'You're not frightened, just inexperienced,' he murmured, his hand slipping into the small of her back and pressing her body to his. 'You know that 1 want you just as I know you want me. Why bother to deny it? You enjoyed the other night as much as I did. Admit it.' He gazed down arrogantly at the top of her head.

  'I—' Natasha stared at his chest and clenched her fists. 'I'm not in the habit of simply scratching an itch,' she replied through gritted teeth. 'I think what happened between us was a mistake. One that should not be repeated.'

  They were the hardest words she'd ever spoken to him, but despite the scent of him, the temptation to lift her lips and receive his kiss, Natasha stood firm.

  Raoul stiffened. 'What do you mean a mistake?' His hold on her tightened. 'You call this a mistake?' In one swift movement his hand slipped under her chin and he tilted her face up. Then, before she could react, his lips came down firmly on hers, parting them, forcing her to open up to him, to allow him in where she'd vowed she wouldn't.

  She could feel the hardness of his arousal against her abdomen, felt herself go liquid inside, felt her nipples ache against his chest, was yearning for that feathery caress, an easing of the tightness that was spiralling within her.

  'This is no mistake,' Raoul growled, lifting his mouth from hers and staring deep into her eyes while his fingers found her breast, 'and neither is this,' he muttered, slipping his hand deftly below her sweater, a triumphant smile breaking as he felt her braless nipple peak under his grazing thumb. 'I will teach you how to recognize a mistake, mademoiselle,' he whispered, taunting further, making sure she felt him as his other hand slipped under the elastic of her sweatpants. The smile turned into an arrogant grin as he realized she wore no panties, and his hand roamed freely.

  Natasha flushed, felt his fingers come into contact with the delicious welcoming wetness between her thighs and tried to resist, to protest. But once again his lips were on hers. She felt drunk on emotion, high on sensations spiralling, curling within her, felt his expert touch caressing each needy spot inside her until she was gasping in his arms, begging for fulfilment.

  'Not so fast, ch,’ he muttered, taking it slowly, prolonging the delight. 'Not so fast. When you come I want you to be damn certain that this is no mistake.'

  Then when she could bear it no more his fingers quickened their pace, bringing her over the edge, making her cling to him, dizzy with pleasure, unable to do more than lean her head against his broad chest and allow him to take her in his arms and sit her on his knee on the sofa.

  Before she had time to recover he'd slipped off her pants and was quickly undressing himself.

  'Raoul,' she begged weakly, 'this is crazy. Someone could come in. I—'

  'Shush,' he ordered, lying on top of her and easing himself inside.

  'Ahh.' Natasha sighed as he entered her, feeling him fill her and knowing it felt so right. For a moment Raoul lay thus, staring down at her, their bodies as one. Then with slow methodical thrusts he had her gasping again, raising her hips to his as together they discovered a new and wonderful rhythm that she wished would go on and on for ever. She forgot where she was, the time and place, simply gave way to the delight of his lovemaking, drawing him further and further within her until at last they came in a frenzied rush and Raoul sank on top of her.

  They lay, spent, hearing the beat of each other's heart. But after a few minutes reality began to sink in and Natasha took stock of her situation. Here she was, half-naked, lying in the arms of one man while expecting another to take her to dinner at any minute.

  'Raoul,' she whispered, touching his shoulder.

  'Mmm,' he grunted.

  'Raoul, we must get dressed. Gaston will arrive at any moment and I'm not even ready.'

  She felt him stiffen, then raise himself. His dark hair was tousled and his eyes turbulent as he stared down her.

  'You mean you still intend to go out with Mallard after what just occurred here?' he bit out, eyes blazing.

  'I have to. I accepted his invitation. It would be very rude to cry off at the last minute.'

  There was a moment's silence before he withdrew himself in one quick movement and rose. 'I should have expected this,' he exclaimed jeeringly. 'They say like mother like daughter. In your case,' he said bitterly, pulling on his clothes, 'I should say like ancestor like descendant. It is obviously not just Natasha's name you inherited, but her nature as well.' With that he dragged his fingers through his hair and, sending her one last fulminating glance, marched from the room.

  Bewildered, Natasha hastily pulled on her clothes as the sound of his car engine disappeared into the night. This was all too crazy, too ridiculous for words. Here she was being accused of… what? What exactly was he accusing her of?

  She ran upstairs to her room and hastened to the shower. Gaston would be here any minute.

  How could she possibly face him after what had just happened?

  Oh, Lord.

  This was all so confusing, so unsettling. Hadn't she promised herself not to submit to Raoul's advances again? Yet at the first opportunity she'd faltered. And now he was accusing her of being like her ancestor. Well, he could be easy on that score, she reflected with a sniff, letting the hot jet of water soothe her satisfied body. She would not let what had happened to her ancestor happen to her. Would not be despised and humiliated, however hard he tried.

  With a determined huff Natasha dried herself with a large terry towel and, grabbing a pair of jeans and a silk shirt from her closet, pulled them on just as a flash of headlights illuminated the night.

  Gaston was here.

  Oh, God.

  She would have to use all her British sang froid to keep her cool tonight, she realized, taking a deep breath. Too had if Raoul was upset that she was dining with Gaston. He was being ridiculous. Surely he must realize she would he incapable of doing anything with another man? The realization hit her hard and she swallowed.

  Was she really that badly smitten?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RAOUL drove back to the Ch in a towering rage.

  How dared she flout him like this? How dared she go I from his arms to the company of another man? He should have known. Hadn't history warned him enough? Weren't the circumstances recounted to him since childhood sufficient warning to keep him away from her?

  'Bon sang!' he exclaimed, ramming his foot on the accelerator angrily. That he, a seasoned womanizer, should get caught in a trap like this. Destiny surely had something to do with it. And she'd said she'd seen Natasha's ghost. Perhaps there was more to it than met the eye. Perhaps the old Natasha had come to take revenge on his ancestor through him.

  He shook his head and told himself to stop being ridiculous. This was the twenty-first century, after all. He must simply bring an end to this damn nonsense and leave for Paris immediately. Perhaps he should just marry Camille de Longueville, whose mother had been pushing her at him for the past months, and have a traditional French marriage with several mistresses on the side and be done with it.

  Right now, he reckoned, furious, anything would be better than this.

  'You seem tired tonight,' Gaston remarked as they finished dessert.

  'Oh, just a little,' she evaded, mustering a smile. Where was Raoul? On his way to Paris by now, probably.

  'Well, maybe it's the sudden change in temperature,'

  Gaston replied blandly. 'It has become quite cold for the season.'

  'Yes. I suppose it has,' she answered vaguely. What if he'd left in anger and had an accident on the road? It would he all her fault.

  'Natasha?' Gaston leaned across the table and touched her hand. 'You seem very far away. Is something troubling you?'
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  'I'm so sorry,' she said, blushing, realizing how rude she must appear. 'I was just distracted by something.'

  'Something or someone?'

  Her eyes flew up. 'I—'

  'You don't need to explain,' he said, squeezing her hand. 'I caught the vibes between you and Raoul yesterday. It is quite obvious that the two of you are very attracted to one another.'

  'Is it?' She looked squarely at him now, her eyes big with wonder. 'I didn't realize that other people were aware.'

  'My dear, this is France,' he replied, with laughter in his eyes. 'Romance is in the air. It is the first thing we sense between a man and a woman.'

  'Oh, gosh. It's all so difficult.' Her shoulders slumped.

  'Why? Or rather, why don't you tell me about it?' Gaston sat back and smiled at her. 'I am your friend, Natasha, I'm here to help. I am also Raoul's friend, and I get the feeling that something isn't right between you two.'

  'You're only too right. It isn't.' She sighed, leaned her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers.

  'Then let me order a couple of calvados and you shall tell me about it.' He raised a finger and beckoned the waiter.

  'There's nothing much to tell, really. We met, and we—I—well, we sort of ended up attracted to one another,' she mumbled, not knowing what else to say.

  'And then? You made love?'

  Colour flew to her cheeks. 'How did you know?'

  'It's written all over you. You made love, and now part of you regrets it because Raoul is a selfish bastard who has no desire to commit to anything. You, on the other hand, are a loyal and trustworthy woman who would not have made love with him were you not emotionally involved. Am I right?' His blue eyes penetrated hers, filled with warmth and understanding.

  'That just about sums it up.' She nodded glumly. 'I don't know why I let myself get involved with a man like that. It's crazy. It never should have happened.'

  'Why not? It is the unusual in life that attracts us, not the banal. Or not people like you and Raoul anyway.'

  'Raoul is obsessed with the past. He seems to have some fixation about that story between Regis and my namesake. It's almost as if it haunts him.'

  'Perhaps it does,' Gaston responded thoughtfully, picking up the glass of calvados and taking a sip. 'You know, the Argentans are a very proud and noble family. They never forgave my ancestor for taking the lovely Natasha's virginity for Regis's life. To them, it constituted the ultimate humiliation. Raoul still thinks of it thus. We used to talk about it some years back, about how funny it was that we could be such good friends when our ancestors had been mortal enemies.'

  'Well, just be careful he doesn't become your mortal enemy now. He knows we're dining together tonight,' she said, with a humourless laugh.

  'And was not pleased?'

  'That's putting it mildly.' She rolled her eyes heavenwards. 'He was furious, and left in a rage saying I was just like the first Natasha,' she ended, deflated.

  'I see. Well…' Gaston pondered a moment, then smiled, '1 wouldn't set too much store by Raoul's temper. It flares up, then subsides just as quickly. And I'm a big boy. I can deal with Raoul's tantrums. Also, it won't do him any harm to realize he's not the only kid on the block.'

  Despite her anxiety and nervousness Natasha laughed. 'It's so funny hearing you use American expressions,' she said, smiling, more relaxed now that she had opened up to this man whom she was fast considering to be a good friend.

  'I like them. They are most descriptive. But, coming back to the subject at hand, ch amie, I would not be surprised if Raoul isn't angry because he has stronger feelings for you than he intended.'

  'Do you really think so?' Natasha looked across at him doubtfully. Raoul's behaviour hadn't led her to believe anything except that he wanted his cake and to eat it.

  'I cannot be certain, but I think there's a good chance.'

  'Well, whatever it is will have to wait,' she said, gazing down into her glass. 'I'm off to England for a few days. I need to settle my affairs there if I'm coming to live permanently in France.'

  'Of course you must. Also, getting away will allow you to get a better perspective of the situation.'

  'Gaston, there is no situation. Just a hot and heavy physical attraction that got out of hand. I think the sooner I realize that the better it will be for all concerned.'

  Gaston shrugged. 'As you wish. Of course only time will tell, ma ch.'

  That night, as she lay tucked under the covers listening to the wind and rain buffeting the Manoir's solid stone walls, Natasha thought back to every incident she'd experienced since coming to France: her first meeting with Raoul in the field, followed by her grandmother's sudden death—and her new life. It was all very bewildering that, in the space of a few days, her life had taken such a radical change of direction.

  She sighed, letting her mind rest for just a moment on the incredible lovemaking of earlier this evening. They could so easily have been caught in flagrante. She smiled in the dark, wondering what Henri would have said and done had he walked in on them. Then, turning on her side, she closed her eyes and tried not to wonder where Raoul was precisely at this moment and go to sleep instead.

  It was odd walking into her old flat in South Kensington, for now it formed part of another era of her existence. She had contacted the offices of the organization she'd worked for in Africa and regretfully handed in her resignation several days previously, but there were still a number of issues to be dealt with.

  As she flipped through the post lying on the floor behind the front door Natasha realized that she felt no nostalgia. Not that she'd ever spent much time here, she admitted, sitting down at the small dining table and depositing the pile of envelopes there while she glanced around the place. It had been more of a pied à terre than anything else—a place to drop off stuff, and pick up mail.

  An address, but never a home.

  She had sold the home near Oxford that had belonged to her parents shortly after the accident, knowing she couldn't bear to live there among the memories. Now she realized that everything that had occurred had conspired to prepare her for the huge change that was about to set her life into a tailspin. Even the lease on this flat was practically up, as though it too was ready to move on and fit in with her new life and plans.

  Tonight she would stay home and answer some of the mail, and then she'd begin clearing out the apartment, Natasha decided, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Then later she would pop down the road to the small Italian restaurant that she'd used to frequent whenever she was in town and say hello to Mamma Gina, the owner. Surprisingly, the restaurant was one of the few things she'd truly miss, she realized, opening the hall cupboard and grimacing at the mess inside: old backpacks, sandals, windbreakers and sunhats—all the stuff she'd needed in her previous life which now seemed so remote. Perhaps she should make up a big parcel and send it all to the Salvation Army.

  Bracing herself for an afternoon of sorting, Natasha entered the kitchen and took out two large plastic rubbish bags.

  'Better get on with it,' she muttered to herself, rolling up her sleeves. No time like the present.

  ‘What do you mean, she's left?' Raoul snapped down the phone.

  'Just as I said, Monsieur le Baron,' Henri answered patiently. 'Mademoiselle said that she was leaving for a few days.'

  'Did she say where she was going?' There was a moment's hesitation. 'Well? Come on, man,' he urged impatiently, 'where is she?'

  'I am not at liberty to say.'

  'Not at— What on earth do you mean, Henri? This is me you are talking to you, not some stranger.'

  'I know, Monsieur le Baron,' Henri replied uncomfortably. 'But mademoiselle gave special orders not to disclose her whereabouts.'

  'I quite understand. Quite right. Can't have strangers knowing all one's moves. So where is she?'

  'Monsieur le Baron, I have just told you that I am not permitted to say.'

  All at once the penny dropped, and Raoul sat up straighter behind th
e desk. 'Are you saying,' he asked deliberately, 'that mademoiselle left specific orders not to tell me where she was going?'

  'That's it, sir.' Henri was obviously relieved that Raoul had finally understood. 'She was quite adamant about it.'

  'She was, was she? Thank you, Henri.'

  He laid the phone back in its cradle, leaned back thoughtfully in the deep leather office chair and twiddled his Mont Blanc pen. So she was running away. Had had the nerve to give orders not to disclose her whereabouts.

  'Ha!' He let out a harsh humourless laugh. As if he was interested in her damn whereabouts. The woman had a nerve. Hadn't he immediately left for Paris after her abominable behaviour the other day? Hadn't he made it clear when he'd departed that he wanted nothing more to do with her?

  Perhaps, he admitted, letting the chair swing back to its normal position, but it still didn't explain why he couldn't get the wretched creature out of his mind. Her image haunted him. And to make matters worse he'd been out with three different girls, each one prettier than the other, and had deposited all three of them on their doorsteps by eleven in the evening, aware that he had no desire to make love with any of them.

  Things were bad when it came to such a pass.

  And something must be done.

  Urgently.

  As far as he was concerned there was only one way of dealing with these affaires de coeur. Once you were bitten you had to live it out. He needed to find Natasha, persuade her to go off with him—say to the Caribbean for a couple of weeks—and make love to her endlessly to satisfy the yearning he was experiencing. After that, once he'd had her in every way he'd been imagining for the past few days and nights, he would be over it and would be able to resume his existence without further disturbance.

  The only problem with this most laudable plan was that A: he had to get Natasha to co-operate—though he didn't doubt that with a little persuading he could manage that— and B: he hadn't a clue where to locate her.

  'Merde alors!' he exclaimed, rising and pacing the large high-ceilinged office like a caged leopard. Imagine disappearing in this unusual manner and then having the nerve to leave specific instructions not to inform him. Him! It was unheard of. No sooner had he turned his back on her than she was up to something. Well, not for long, he vowed, an idea shaping in his fertile brain.